Christmas Eve and Other Stories
by karebear
Summary: "And if our kindness this day is just pretending, if we pretend long enough, never giving up, it just might be who we are." Middle of the winter, middle of the night, "to know who needs help, you need only just ask." GiftFic for MLHawke.


And the snow it was falling, the neon was calling  
The bartender turned and said: "Not that I care, but how would you know this?"  
The child said "I've noticed."  
If one could be home, they'd be already there  
- Trans-Siberian Orchestra

Anders sits at the bar, with his hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the thick ceramic mug, but except for a sip every now and then, he doesn't drink. The mead is thick and heavy, far more potent than anything he has access to in the Tower. A sip every now and then is enough to make his head swim. Or maybe that's just exhaustion. His muscles feel heavy, they twitch periodically as he forces himself to keep as alert as he can manage, a challenge that grows increasingly difficult since he won't risk magic to do it. His eyeballs feel gritty. He takes another sip, and the sweet, sticky warmth of the brew slides into his belly. The fireplace crackling in the corner adds to the general feeling of pleasant warmth, and he watches the flames dance. Whenever someone struggles to shove the door open enough to walk through it, he catches a glimpse of the wind raging outside, pushing gusts of snow through the frigid, icy streets. He smiles, aware that such a storm will slow the templars pursuing him. He tries not to think about that, and takes another sip. His eyelids begin to droop.

"You're the quiet type?" he hears a cheerful voice ask, and he snaps immediately to full awareness, throwing his arm up to block a hit before he realizes that's what he's doing. He settles back on his barstool as soon as he recognizes that there is nothing threatening him. It's just a smiling woman with waves of dark curls tumbling to her shoulders, which is what he notices first, immediately before he becomes aware of the telltale pointed ears and slender build of the elves. And also, her very prominently displayed breasts.

The whispers at the back of his mind insist that just because she's a woman - a very, very... breasted... woman - that doesn't mean she's not a threat. He _can't _relax his guard completely; he never can, not anymore. But he unwinds his fingers from the handle of the mug for the first time since he got here, and he lets himself smile, a grin that makes him feel better. After a heartbeat or two, it doesn't even feel forced.

"I'm not, actually," he promises. The woman snickers.

"What're you here for, love?" she asks softly. Anders swallows hard, feeling his skin flush as her fingertips dance up his arm. He swears he can feel the warmth of her touch even through the heavy fabric of his shirt. He shrugs, because he can hardly answer the question, can he? What would he say, 'I'm a runaway mage, and this place was _here'_?

His companion smirks, and interprets his silence as permission, apparently, because she drapes herself over him, straddling his lap. The bartender raises an eyebrow, and somehow behind them a few men start catcalls and appreciative whistles. And, he has to admit, she feels really, really good. And _looks _really good, with her... breasts. And... she smells good, some kind of flowery perfume. He _wants _this.

He lets himself respond, he wraps one arm around her waist, and now that he's making sure she won't fall, she pushes herself even closer to him. He ducks his head, aware of how fucking _close _they are... how close to fucking. He clears his throat. "Not that I don't... I mean... um... can I buy you a drink first? Or... you know... something?"

She laughs. She's one of those women that has a _really _pretty laugh, or maybe it's just that he's got a small reference pool. "Sure, kid."

She waves her hand toward the bartender as Anders protests that he's not a kid and fumbles for the last of his coin. It's not the first time he's gotten by without money, but he definitely cannot afford whatever they both know she's going to ask for if he lets her tease him into bed. The annoying but inescapable fact is almost enough to make him push her away, combined as it is with the sensation crawling at the back of his neck: someone is watching him. He looks over his shoulder while his new friend downs half her drink in one gulp, and his eyes immediately light on the child in the corner of the room. The boy scowls at him from behind an untidy mop of hair that almost exactly matches that of the woman currently hanging herself off of him, not unlike the pine garland wrapped tightly round the mantlepiece above the fire.

When she sees where he's looking, she growls and glares daggers at the kid. The boy flinches and ducks his head, curling back further into the shadows. Anders slides himself out from the woman's arms and steps out of her reach. "He's yours," he says, somehow making it sound like an accusation. He suddenly feels a lot less warm and comfortable, too.

The elven prostitute shrugs, without apology. She's also no longer laughing. And she sounds far less cheerful. "So what? I'm gonna send him to the Chantry soon as I can."

Anders nearly chokes. "You're going to do _what_?"

She shrugs. "Well, he don't belong here, do he? They don't want him, though. He's too scrawny. Always getting sick."

As if to confirm this, the little boy begins to cough, a deep, rattling spasm which shakes his whole body. And that's certainly part of the problem, but the other part is that his elven heritage is obvious, even from across a dimly lit room.

Anders leaves the elf to her drinking, turning his back on her and crossing the room in a few long steps. The boy glances up, still coughing, yet he still manages to summon a glare, the kind of suspicious hostility Anders immediately recognizes. He flashes the child a weak smile but says nothing, because he is aware, through hyperfocused senses, that the kid's mother is right on his heels. He spins around to stare her down. Frustration claws in the pit of his belly because this is none of his business, but he can't leave it alone. Well, he's never been _smart_.

"Look, don't take it personal, alright? I just... I really need the money, okay?"

Anders stuffs his hands in his pockets and won't meet her eyes. "I don't have any more," he tells her, honestly.

"It's not _for _me. It's for 'im."

"I thought you were sending him to the Chantry." The remark is cutting, on purpose. Behind it is all the anger Anders can summon because he _knows _what the Chantry does and somewhere deep within him there is still the hurt he feels as a child thrown to the wolves by his own mother. He's blaming this woman because she's a convenient stand-in. It doesn't change the fact that he's _right_.

He can feel the crackling coil of magical potential collecting within him, responding to his heightened emotions. It's not hard to keep it bottled - he does it without thinking, now. But the energy is still _there_, within him, looking for an outlet. He scowls, and throws another glance at the child, who is staring up at the impending confrontation with wide eyes.

"Only 'cuz I can't take care of 'im, not that it's any of _your _business," the woman demands. She's trying to sound angry and cold, but Anders can hear the way her voice shakes slightly. She pretends she doesn't care, but she _is _pretending. And he understands that too.

"Did you ask him what he thinks about all this?" Anders asks carefully.

"Who cares what he thinks?"

"_I do_," Anders demands.

He taps his foot up and down, he taps his fingers against his leg, unable to keep still even as tired as he still is. He sighs and blows out a careful breath. His eyes don't leave the elven woman, and she seems to crumble beneath his scrutiny. The fire continues to crackle as it burns, the sound by far the loudest in the sparsely populated room. _Everyone _is staring at them. So much for not drawing attention to himself. Anders takes advantage of the fact that everybody's looking at him anyway, and cracks a smile. "Oi," he demands. "Who's got some extra coin? For the kid?"

Well, it's possibly the one thing guaranteed to get everyone to return to their own interests. Within a heartbeat or two, the few men scattered about the room have returned to their cups and grown selectively deaf. The bartender even starts laughing, the hollow laughter of a man who simply cannot believe that anyone might help somebody else. Who in this place is going to give up their coin for some half-elf brat? Or a mage, for that matter, not that anybody knows that's what Anders is.

Outside, the wind still howls, the snow falls heavy. It's barely possible to see the small village Chantry looming across the empty square, but Anders _can _see it, when one of the serving women wrenches the door open once again to kick at a yowling mean-looking cat that's hissing and scratching for a way in. He can see the glow of candles, and the scattered clusters of people making their way toward the building, in the middle of a midnight blizzard. Children laugh and chase each other, heedless of the danger posed by the ice, as the bells ring deep, resonant hymns and summon the people to worship. Anders turns back from the cold, but leaves the door partially open. The little boy has wedged himself into the doorway and is staring at the children playing in the streets with that kind of outsiderness that Anders understands all too well. "How come yer all here anyway?" he asks. "Shouldn't you be out there?"

The bartender snickers as he swirls a dirty rag around inside a few of the empty mugs in front of him.

"Chantry wouldn't be opening its doors to the likes of us," one of the drinkers, a thick-muscled man with a drooping mustache and slurred words, manages to comment. He makes it sound like a simple observation in an argument with himself, rather than an answer to the question Anders asked.

But the mage smiles triumphantly, privately amused because the other man obviously has no way of knowing how right he is.

One of the bar's few other patrons laughs and raises his mug in a half-assed toast. "Right bunch of bastards we are!" he calls cheerfully. The serving woman hurries out to refill his drink, and the skinny fellow slips a couple of copper coins into her hand.

The bartender grunts and nods at the elven woman. He says nothing, but the little boy turns away from the door anyway, aware of _something _happening. The human woman scowls, but she slips the coins into the kid's hand as though she can't quite believe she's doing it. Another wave of coughing overtakes him as he tucks his new prize deep into his pocket.

"What?" the serving woman demands, making it a challenge to the others scattered around the room. She nods toward Anders, when no one responds. "This one's right. None of us has got any family, but the kid oughter get _somethin' _to mark the day."

After moment of heavy silence, chairs scrape backward and hands dig into hidden pockets to summon a small pile of copper coins that end up clutched tightly in the half-elf child's fist. The boy grins up at Anders between deep coughs. The mage smiles back, though in truth the boy's rattling breaths and violent coughing fits are enough to make him worried.

The hum of conversation slowly returns to the room. Anders sits in an empty chair, and the boy's mother sits across from him, just out of arm's reach. She seems older and more tired now. "How long has he been like this?" Anders asks softly.

"Since he was a baby. Healers couldn't do anything even if I could pay 'em, and I can't."

Anders sighs, knowing that he's dooming himself. But he _can't _walk away. Not tonight. He drums his fingers on his knee and focuses on the child. "I could... maybe help," he offers, hesitantly, not looking at the woman. Somehow he can feel the confusion radiating from her anyway.

"What's his name?" he asks, pointedly refusing to acknowledge out loud what he's already basically admitted.

"Caleb," the woman whispers softly. "After his father." Anders nods.

"Caleb, c'mere." The boy takes a few hesitant steps forward. But he looks up, completely trusting. Anders takes the boy's hand in one of his, and with his other he brushes over the boy's forehead. He takes a deep breath and lets his mana stir, touching the child. The warm blue light wraps itself around them as he probes for the dark shadows of illness inside the boy's body. The kid begins to shake and seize violently, racked by another coughing fit, the worst yet. Anders sinks too his knees, to be closer to Caleb's level but also because he could barely keep himself standing _before_ he expended as much energy as he can safely wield to heal the boy. He doesn't let his hold of his power fade until Caleb's coughing dies away, and the boy wraps his arms around his neck. Anders holds him, awkwardly. "It won't last forever," he whispers, apologetically. "I don't even -"

"Thank you," the boy's mother interrupts, resting her hand gently over his.

Anders slams his mouth shut, and nods. "Just lemme get some sleep, okay?" he begs, knowing he's asking too much, knowing he can't trust even that. But the snowstorm still rages outside, and he isn't even sure he could cross the room, right now. If the templars come for him, he wants to at least be somewhere warm. "Just... an hour or two. I promise, I won't bother you again."

"Stay here as long as you need, boy," the bartender insists, gruffly; his voice echoes through the room. "I told you, the Chantry doesn't come in here."

Anders glances briefly through the cracked door at the glowing candlelight in the streets. He turns back to the crackling fire, and shifts the sleeping child in his arms as the snow continues falling, softer now. The wind no longer howls. And he knows it won't last forever, but he cannot think of any place in the world he would rather be. He feels safe.

* * *

On titles: Yes, I am aware that Thedas wouldn't have "Christmas" - But this story would not have happened without the TSO album, so that is what it's called. Sue me.


End file.
